


Parting Shots

by leonidaslion



Series: Keepsake [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:58:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's leaving for Stanford, but he wants something before he goes ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parting Shots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leighm](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=leighm).



The house was quiet for the first time in weeks and Dean was a little drunk. More than a little, maybe. He’d been drinking since Dad stormed out around three o’clock, almost ten minutes after Sam had made his own sullen exit. Broke into John’s private stash of Jim Beam when his own supply of Pabst had run out.

He sat in the dirty kitchen and drank and watched the door, waiting for his father or his brother to walk in. He didn’t know which one would come home first, and he didn’t care, but it was time to make some kind of a stand for himself. He was going to tell Dad _(or Sam, but he was betting on Dad since Sam’s moods burned longer)_ that he was done with the whole sorry business. If Dad and Sam had problems, then they could work them out without dragging Dean into it, thanks.

But when the sun set and Dean found himself sitting in the dark with empty cans littering the floor around him and the bottle of bourbon getting dangerously low, he had to acknowledge the possibility that neither one of them was coming back tonight. Dad had certainly been known to follow a horny barfly home and fuck away his troubles, and Sam … well, Sam wasn’t above sleeping on a park bench in order to make some kind of point.

Sighing, Dean screwed the cap back onto the Jim Beam. He looked at the trashed kitchen, considered picking up a little bit, and then thought, _fuck it. Someone else can pick up my shit for a change._ He left the bottle sitting on the table and headed down the hall to his room.

He didn’t bother with the sweatpants he usually wore to bed. Just stripped and dropped his clothes in a pile on the floor and lay down. He didn’t think he’d be able to fall asleep, but one minute he was staring at the window and then next he was blinking himself awake to the yellow flood of the overhead light filling the room. Half-blinded, he dug for the knife he kept under his pillow.

“It’s me,” came a familiar voice, and Dean relaxed.

“Sammy,” he said, rolling over on his back and blinking owlishly at his brother. “What time is it?”

Sam didn’t answer him, just shut the door and leaned against it. Regarded Dean with a closed, unfathomable expression. He was still pissed off, then. Dean let his head fall back down on the pillow and squinted at the clock on his nightstand. Only nine o’clock. Fuck, he was getting old.

“Get out of here and go to bed, man. I’m tired.”

“Are you drunk?” Sam asked.

Great. Not just pissed off, but spoiling for a fight. “What part of fuck off did you not understand?” Dean grumbled.

Sam didn’t move. “How much did you have?”

“Enough.”

“Are you sober enough to talk or what?”

“Jesus, man.” Dean gave up on drifting back to sleep and sat up. He started to swing his legs off the side of the bed and then remembered he was naked and settled for scootching up to lean his back against the headboard. “This can’t wait until tomorrow?”

Sam shook his head: a tight, angry motion. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, right.”

Frowning, Sam straightened. “I’m serious. I’m—I thought Dad might go ballistic, so I made arrangements. They pulled some strings so that my scholarship kicks in this summer, and classes start Thursday, so …”

Dean stared at his brother for a while, letting that sink in.

Sam.

Leaving.

Tomorrow.

Understanding hit him low and hard, like a kick to the balls. Dean felt the color drain from his face and struggled to hide the pain shooting through his chest by keeping his expression steady. He wanted to brush this off with a joke or a sarcastic remark, but the only words he could come up with were pleas. Holding tight to his pride, he sat quietly and waited.

Sam hadn’t come in here just to drop that bombshell: Dean could tell from the way his brother was standing, all tension and nerves.

Sure enough, after a few minutes of strained silence, Sam cleared his throat and said, “I didn’t come in here to fight. I want something. From you.”

Dean wanted to point out that he hadn’t said one goddamned word: that despite these horrible, messy weeks, he’d done nothing but mediate and cool tempers. But instead he forced down that brief, self-serving rush of anger and asked, “You need a ride to the bus station?”

“I’m taking a plane.”

“Oh.”

Sam swallowed and then, deliberately, reached behind him and locked the door. He didn’t take his eyes off of Dean and that kicked, beaten sensation in Dean’s groin shifted into something warmer.

“Sammy, what are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” Sam stepped forward and pulled his shirt off in one smooth motion. Broad chest, defined muscles, tanned skin. Twisted scar curling through his left shoulder where a farmer’s ghost had caught him with a scythe before Dean could get to him. Eyes intent and focused and— _fuck_ —heated.

“Come on, man, stop fooling around,” Dean tried, ignoring the tightening in his groin as Sam came toward the bed. Sam’s eyes were locked on him: his hands worked at unbuttoning his jeans.

“Don’t try and tell me you don’t want this, Dean,” he said as he paused to shove his pants down. His boxers went next and then he was naked, and hard, and bigger than Dean had imagined.

Dean realized he was staring and snapped his head to the side. He wanted to roll off the bed and take a running dive out the window. Probably would have if he hadn’t been naked: avoidance had never hurt anybody. As it was, he had to settle for pulling the sheet up to his chest and lying, “I don’t know how much crack you’ve been smoking, but—”

“Cut the crap,” Sam snapped. “We both know it’s been coming to this. I’m just … helping things along.”

Dean pressed his eyes shut at the feel of Sam climbing onto the bed with him. It was impossible to decide whether his balls or his chest ached more. His skin felt electrified: hyperaware of the press of the sheets as Sam crawled over him. He wanted to strike out, wanted to run, and couldn’t because Sam was right.

There’d been this growing, sickening tension between them over the last few years, ever since Dean had tossed his kid brother a bag of chips and seen a man catch them. There’d been accidental touches that were anything but accidental, and intentional strip teases that never went quite far enough, and word games that left Dean dizzy with desire and jacking off in a filthy roadside bathroom.

Once, there’d been a half-kiss that Dean told himself didn’t really count because he’d been hopped up on painkillers and Sam had just been really worried and it was perfectly normal for brothers to give each other a peck on the lips every now and then. Besides, Dad had been in the next room, so it wasn’t like they could have gone anywhere with it.

“Dean, look at me.” Sam’s voice was practically a purr as he crawled up Dean’s body.

Despite the excited surge of his cock, Dean shook his head. “I can’t do this, Sam.”

“Sure you can,” Sam breathed, and then kissed him.

It wasn’t anything like that tentative first attempt. This was rough, Sam’s tongue demanding entrance and Dean yielding to him the way that he always did. This was the taste of alcohol on his brother’s lips, and anger, and bitterness.

Dean wasn’t sure how long he would have let Sam keep kissing him, but then Sam, impatient, grabbed Dean’s dick through the sheet. Snapped back to himself, Dean shoved his brother backwards and broke for the door. The knob was stuck for some reason, wouldn’t turn, oh right was fucking _locked_ , and then Sam slammed up against him from behind. Dean’s breath whooshed out in a grunt.

“Get off me,” he panted.

Sam just pressed him more firmly against the door, his erection obvious and impossible to ignore against Dean’s ass. Dean could have elbowed his brother and put him down, but no matter how panicked he was by the situation, he couldn’t bring himself to deliberately hurt Sam.

“I want—a keepsake—when I’m away—”

Dean laughed wildly. “I think you got that definition a little screwed up,” he said.

Sam’s breath was hot and moist against Dean’s shoulder blades: his body trembling. “Just—just let me.”

“No.”

Sam pounded the door in frustration. “Why? I’ve seen you look at me, Dean. You feel this—this thing—just as much as I do. Hell, you give it away to anyone who even glances at you and you won’t let me? Just—just once?”

He slid one arm around Dean’s waist and Dean couldn’t stop his treacherous body from easing back into his brother, giving Sam the room he needed. Both of their breaths stuttered out as Sam wrapped his hand around Dean’s cock. Dean clawed at the door for something to ground himself with and came up with smooth wood.

“Want you,” Sam mumbled behind him. Biting down on Dean’s shoulder, he jacked his hand in a sharp, almost vicious movement. All of that dry friction hurt, wasn’t quite what Dean wanted, but the fact that it was Sam’s hand more than made up for it.

“I-It’s wrong, Sam,” Dean groaned as his hips jerked forward.

“Why? Because _Dad_ says it is?” Sam’s voice was soft, but there was an underlying current of anger in the way that he thrust against Dean’s ass, cock hot and throbbing. Dean let his forehead drop against the door: couldn’t keep from widening his stance, giving his brother more room to work.

“No,” he panted as Sam moved against him. “B-because I do. We’re—oh _fuck_ —brothers, Sam, or does that not m-mean anything to you anymore?”

Sam released Dean’s dick to run his hands over the meat of his ass. Clutching, kneading, spreading. “I don’t care. I want this. Just this one thing, Dean. Just this once.”

Dean bit back on a moan as Sam’s cock pushed up against his entrance and whispered, “You’re drunk.” He shuddered as that looming pressure moved away again.

“So?” Sam’s voice was hard: deliberately hurtful. “How many people have you screwed when you were trashed? Twenty? Thirty? Or do I have to pay you first?”

Dean’s chest gave a pained clench. He’d only ever fucked seven people, all girls, and all because there’d been a mutual attraction. He wasn’t—okay, maybe he worked it a little to get them cut some slack, have a waitress take a drink or two off the tab or a motel clerk knock a few bucks off the room, but he wasn’t some kind of _whore_.

Anger swept back into him, giving him the strength to buck back and send Sam tumbling off of him. He turned to glare down at his brother, who was sprawled on the floor, and snarled, “You’re drunk and you’re pissed off, so I’m gonna go ahead and pretend that you didn’t just say that. But this ends _now_. We’re not doing this.”

Sam narrowed his eyes and propped himself up on one elbow. “You owe me, Dean.”

“I _owe_ you? For what?”

Pushing himself to his feet, Sam said, “For never sticking up for me. For taking Dad’s side on everything. For making me … fuck, you think I _want_ to be like this? You think I don’t know how fucked up it is to want to fuck your own brother?”

He came toward Dean again, his face twisted with a horrible mix of anger and shame, and Dean let himself be shoved back against the door. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Sam so furious: was sure he’d never heard his brother use that particular swear before.

“I’ve wanted you since I was fourteen,” Sam breathed, pressing their cocks together and holding them in one of those huge paws that he was just starting to grow into. “You’re like one of those goddamned bug zappers, and I can’t—I can’t help myself. I can’t go without having you, and I need to go. Don’t you see that, Dean? I need to go or I’m gonna … I can’t _stay_ here.”

“Sam, I—”

“What? You _what_? You’re sorry? Don’t give me that crap. You knew exactly what you were doing. You did this to me, you—you fucking _seduced_ me with your eyes, and your—your lips.” Sam dragged his thumb across Dean’s mouth, eyes going hazy. Dean got a brief taste of Sam—sweat and alcohol and smoke—and then his brother dropped his hand again, gaze sharpening. “You’ve got me so I’m twisted to hell inside and now you’re gonna say no? Fuck you, Dean.”

Sam pulled himself away and strode over to the pile of clothes. Grabbed them with rough, angry movements.

Dean watched his brother for a moment and then took a hesitant step away from the door. “Sam, I … we can talk about this, okay? This is, yeah, fucked up, and I know I’m at least partially to blame for that, but—”

“Shut up. Do us both a favor and just—just stop.” Arms full of clothes, Sam strode back to the door. “Move.”

Dean should have listened. He knew he should. But instead he planted his feet and said, “No.”

“Goddamn it!” Sam shouted, and hurled his clothes to the floor. He stared down at them, chest heaving and cock hard and flushed between his legs. It took Dean a few seconds to realize that he was crying.

Dean’s chest gave tug like it was going to snap in two. Looking at his brother now, he realized that Sam was right. Dean was older; he was the one who was supposed to have been responsible and nipped this thing in the bud. He should have noticed that Sam was—that he _wanted_ —when it was still soon enough to correct him.

But it had taken Dean two years to become aware of his brother in that way—two years to realize that Sam’s body had filled out into a man’s frame—and that was two years too long. And in the beginning, he hadn’t—well, he hadn’t thought that it would ever get this far.

Maybe Dean couldn’t put things right between them now, but he could—if Sam wanted this, if he needed it, then Dean could give him that much.

“Okay,” he said hoarsely.

Sam blinked up at him, confused and hurt and a little hopeful. “Okay?” he echoed.

“Do you have—” Dean cast his mind back to what little he knew about guy on guy action and then finished, “We need lube.” He felt sick just saying the words, which weren’t something he should ever have been saying to his little brother, but his dick didn’t seem to mind.

Sam leaned down and fumbled into his jeans. Came up with a small tube and a condom. He swiped his hand across his cheeks, smearing away the tears. There was a savage, hungry triumph in the weight of his eyes as he refocused on Dean.

Dean looked away from his brother’s gaze and wondered if Sam would let him turn off the lights for this. Probably not.

Clearing his throat, he asked, “How do you want to do this?”

“I want—on the bed. Hands and knees.”

Okay, Dean could do this. Hands and knees meant that he wouldn’t have to look at Sam during. Wouldn’t have to see the anger twisting his brother’s face as he fucked in. Still, as he moved toward the bed, Dean’s muscles trembled with the urge to run. He climbed up onto the mattress instead, kneeling the way Sam wanted, and said, “Now what?”

Sam’s weight settled behind him. His hand slid down Dean’s left thigh. “You know what,” he breathed, like Dean did this all the time. Like he was in the habit of letting his kid brother fuck him.

There was the snap of the lube being opened and Dean’s hands clenched into fists on the bed. He wasn’t sure if he was excited or appalled, his emotions too tangled and knotted to figure out. Then Sam’s fingers shoved into him and he didn’t have time to think about anything but relaxing. He may not have known much about the mechanics involved here, but he’d heard enough to know that if he couldn’t relax through this then it was going to hurt like a bitch.

“What, no flowers?” Dean grunted, nervous, as Sam pumped his fingers in and out of him.

Sam just gripped his hip with one hand and kept opening him with the other, rough and hurried. It was a weird sensation, not quite painful but definitely uncomfortable. Dean shifted his legs open wider and that helped a bit. He canted his hips back and holy hell, that helped a _lot_. He moaned at the white shocks of pleasure shooting through him.

“You like that?” Sam asked, working him faster.

“Jesus, Sammy. Feels …”

“What? How does it feel, Dean?” Sam’s voice was still rough—still angry—but Dean didn’t really care anymore.

“Feels good,” he moaned, rocking back onto his brother’s fingers. He was really starting to get into this; starting to wonder why the hell he hadn’t done it before.

“You’ll like this even better, then,” Sam promised.

His fingers pulled free and something huge and hard and blunt pressed up against Dean. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was coming next and Dean’s nerves tensed him up again. Panic surged in his throat.

This was Sam. Sam his _little brother_ who was drunk and pissed off and clearly not thinking straight and Dean couldn’t let this happen.

“Sam, wait,” he said quickly. “Wait a second.”

But Sam either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. He pushed in, hands clamped on either side of Dean’s hips to hold him steady. It hurt, which was only right. Something this fucked up _should_ hurt. Dean bowed his head, bit his lower lip, and told himself to relax.

“So fucking tight,” Sam moaned. “S-so … fuck, you’d think you hadn’t done this before.”

“H-haven’t,” Dean gasped. His back arched as Sam started moving, not giving him time to adjust to the intrusion. His dick was hanging at half-mast, not really interested anymore, and he thought he could taste blood where he’d bitten through his lower lip. Fisting his hands in the bed sheets, he shut his eyes and concentrated on just getting through it: on letting it happen.

“Yeah, right,” Sam panted, pumping faster. He altered the angle of his thrusts and shocky bursts of pleasure exploded through the driving burn, startling Dean into a moan.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Sam muttered. “Lemme hear you.”

He thrust in again and Dean cried out, pushing back into that shattering friction. The initial pain he’d felt was fading in the face of building pleasure, leaving him feeling full instead of torn. Concentrating on the sensation of Sam’s cock sliding in and out of him, he rocked his hips with his brother’s movements. He was starting to see why gay guys might go for this.

Licking his lips, Dean reached underneath himself and started fisting his neglected cock. As Sam’s next thrust pounded directly into that sensitive spot, Dean shuddered and clutched the base of his cock to keep from coming.

When he’d pulled back from the brink enough, he opened his mouth and asked, “What—Christ, what was that?”

Sam’s rhythm faltered. “What was what?” he grunted.

Dean waited for Sam to hit the spot again and then gasped, “ _That._ ”

Sam’s thrusts slowed and then stopped, leaving him buried deep inside of Dean. Dean could feel his brother’s balls nestled up against his ass. He gave a tentative rock backwards.

“Come on, man, don’t—we doing this or what?”

“You really haven’t done this before, have you?” Sam said. Dean couldn’t place the emotion in his brother’s voice, but for the first time all night he didn’t sound angry. Not that Dean was in the mood right now to figure out what the hell was going on in Sam’s head.

“No,” he answered simply. Muscles shaking, he fisted his cock and tossed his head back. Sam’s dick twitched inside of him and huge hands tightened on his hips. “Come on, man, fuck me already.”

“Jesus,” Sam muttered, and then pressed his chest against Dean’s back. One of his hands came around and knocked Dean’s away from his cock. Dean let Sam take over: let his brother’s fingers curl around that soft, sensitive skin and tug. After a moment, Sam started moving again, setting a slower pace this time. He pulled almost all of the way out, leaving only the tip of his cock nestled inside, and then slid back in, leaving Dean half-blind and shaking with need.

“I’m sorry,” Sam breathed, pressing gentle kisses along Dean’s shoulder. “Sorry.”

“F-for what?” Dean asked, confused, and felt his brother shiver. On his next withdrawal, Sam pulled completely out and moved away. Dean’s stomach lurched. He’d done something wrong, had fucked up, couldn’t even give his brother this one thing. He was about to turn and beg Sam to keep going when a hand stroked along his flank.

“It’s okay,” Sam whispered. “I’m not going anywhere. Just want you to turn over.”

Dean licked his lips and then asked in a voice that sounded desert dry, “What?”

Sam’s hands were on him, guiding him over. “On your back. Just … yeah, okay. Now wrap your legs around my waist.”

Sam inched closer, his dick nudging at Dean’s hole, and looked down at him. Dean felt awkward like this—too open and exposed—and he thought again that this might be easier with the lights off. He was about to ask if they could try it that way when he realized that Sam was crying again. It was instinct to reach up and run gentle knuckles across his brother’s cheek. For some reason, Sam’s face twitched at the caress, his eyes miserable and wretched on Dean’s face.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean murmured. “Hey, it’s okay.”

A muscle jumped in Sam’s jaw and he shook his head. “No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have—Dean, I shouldn’t have done that to you. Your first time shouldn’t—I didn’t—” He laughed bitterly. “Fuck, I should stop. I know I should, and I don’t—God, I don’t deserve this, but I can’t—I need you.” He lowered himself down across Dean’s body and kissed him again.

This third kiss was trembling, almost hesitant, which was funny considering the fact that Sam had just had his dick up Dean’s ass. But Sam begged for entrance with slow, pleading licks. Waited for Dean to open up and breathe him in before tangling their tongues together. One of his hands came up to cup the side of Dean’s face, thumb stoking along his cheekbone. So soft, so gentle: like Dean was eggshell thin and might break at a harsh touch.

Dean felt lightheaded when Sam finally broke the kiss. Felt warm inside like he hadn’t since Sam had started bringing up college over a year ago.

Sam dropped their foreheads together. “Tell me it’s okay,” he pleaded. “Tell me you want this.”

“Yeah, Sammy. You know I do.”

Sam shut his eyes and pressed forward. Dean shivered, clutching at his brother’s back as Sam’s cock slid back inside of him. It felt different this way: Sam felt bigger, more intrusive. Dean’s sore channel gave a resistant clench and Sam paused.

“Just relax, okay?” he murmured, nuzzling at Dean’s jaw. “Just let it happen. It’ll be good. Make it so good for you.”

Dean took a deep breath and forced the tension out of himself. He willed his body to open and bring Sam deeper. Sam gave a low groan as he glided back into place and then caught Dean’s mouth in a hungry kiss. He kept his hips still, although Dean could feel Sam’s need to thrust in the way that his brother was trembling above him.

“Tell me when, okay?” Sam breathed, laying tiny bites along Dean’s collarbone.

Dean nodded, letting his own hands roam over his brother’s back. Holding him close as his body adjusted to the intrusion. When the faint burn of entry had faded to a needy throb, Dean shifted and grunted, “Now, Sammy. Come on, man.”

Sam gave Dean’s throat one lingering lick and then propped himself up on his left hand. Staring down at Dean’s face, he reached down with his right and cupped his cock. He started stroking Dean and fucking in at the same time, moving in a steady, slow rhythm that set up a low thrum of desire throughout Dean’s body.

Looking up at his brother’s face, framed by the hair that Sam refused to cut, Dean realized that Sam must have done this before. That much was evident in the way that Sam was pacing himself. In the way that he seemed to know exactly how quickly to speed things up to keep Dean on the cresting edge of pleasure instead of pain.

“I love you, Dean,” Sam panted as he worked himself back to speed. “No ma—oh _God_ —matter what h-happens, I want you to— _shit_ —to remember that, okay?”

“Love you t-too, Sammy. Wanted s-so fucking long, I—knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t—Jesus, right there, yeah _harder_ —I couldn’t stop myself.”

“So goddamned gorgeous,” Sam whispered back. “Drive me nuts.”

Dean clutched at his brother’s waist as Sam dragged him toward orgasm with rapid, firm jacks. Pulling him in tighter with his legs, he opened his mouth and let the plea that had been building fall out. “S-stay. God, Sammy, stay with me.”

“I can’t,” Sam moaned, and then Dean was coming, shaking and shouting and falling apart. Sam ground out something that might have been Dean’s name and followed him over, still thrusting in through his orgasm. When he was done, he pulled out gingerly and then curled up with Dean, tangling their legs together and resting his head on Dean’s chest.

Dean held him close, running a hand through that too-long, rebellious hair, and Sam pressed a kiss into his chest. They lay there quietly while their hearts slowed down. Dean shifted a little, uncomfortable, as his ass started to alert him to the fact that he’d be feeling this for a while.

Sam winced at the motion. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Dean stared up at the ceiling and didn’t reply. Now that he wasn’t distracted by sensation, he had a pretty good idea what Sam was apologizing for, and he didn’t know what he could say without starting another fight. ‘You should have believed me when I told you that I didn’t whore myself out’ was the least of the things on the tip of his tongue. ‘You can’t get back at Dad by fucking me’ wasn’t the worst.

Finally, he settled on, “You want a ride to the airport tomorrow?”

Sam sighed and pushed himself up. Cold air rushed in where he had been as he climbed off the bed and started to collect his clothes again. The atmosphere in the room was suddenly awkward, and Dean thought that this was a mistake: that they shouldn’t have gone here. Should at least have done it in the dark where they each could have pretended they were fucking a stranger.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam said, careful to keep his back to Dean. “My flight leaves at six, so I need to be there by four. I’ll, uh, be gone before you get up.”

Dean wanted to tell his brother that his plane could have left at half-past yesterday and he still would have dragged his sore ass out of bed and driven him, but he could sense that that answer wasn’t what Sam wanted. What he _thought_ he wanted. Whatever.

“Guess this is goodbye, then.”

“Guess so.” Sam stood there awkwardly, turned toward Dean but with his clothes held between them like a shield. He wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes, and there was a guilty set to his shoulders.

Dean ran a hand through his hair. He tried to think of something to say to Sam that would fix this: that would fix them. But it was one fuck and four years too late for that one.

After a long, stilted minute, Sam turned and headed for the door. He had already unlocked the door and was in the process of easing himself out into the hall when Dean found his voice and blurted, “I’ll call, okay?”

Sam’s eyes flashed up to him, startled and frightened and desperate. Regretful.

“Don’t,” he whispered, and then shut the door behind him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Dean woke up, he was disoriented by the darkness in the room. It should have been daytime; there should have been morning sunlight streaming in through the window, the way there had been when it had finally sunk in that Sam was gone. He must have fallen asleep again: slept the day through.

Dean blinked at the room, trying to figure out what had finally woken him, and found his father sitting in a chair by his bed with his head in his hands. He had a moment of guilt, sure that John knew—could smell it in the air despite the fact that Dean had changed his sheets and showered after he heard Sam’s taxi drive off.

Then John's head came up and he said, softly, “He’s gone.”

Dean blinked. Hesitated, and then nodded.

John started to cry with helpless shakes of his shoulders.

 _It’s okay,_ Dean wanted to say. _He’ll be back._ But he couldn’t make his voice work. After a few minutes of listening to his father cry, he got up and went into the kitchen to make coffee, moving carefully and not really caring if his father noticed.

John didn’t.

It was three months before Dean spoke again.


End file.
